Hunger of the Dark
Western-Horror Short Story
Wrote this for a genre mash-up competition. Didn’t win, so now I can publish it here for you to enjoy! Nothing gory, but hopefully a little creepy. Let me know what you think.
Hunger of the Dark
“Those things give me the creeps.”
Buck scrubbed the perspiration from his upper lip, wishing he’d left Slim snoring back in camp. The yellow flame of his lantern wavered in the glass, no matter the air was still and close, sending shadows dancing over the earthen walls.
“What are they, you think?”
Buck ignored Slim’s whispers. He was always moaning about something.
“It’s like they’re watching us.”
“You’re an old woman, Slim.” Buck glanced to the figure sitting on projection from the tunnel wall. Another sat a few feet ahead, its crude features only vaguely humanoid. “Just some superstitious nonsense.”
Slim pressed up close behind, stepping on the back of Buck’s boots. He elbowed the man to give him some space. Slim eased back, muttering under his breath as they worked deeper into the mine.
Buck went cautiously, anyway. This tunnel was off the main shafts, not shored with timber. Pebbles and loose earth shifted underfoot, the steady rush of distant water harmonizing with Slim’s wheezing breaths.
And, Buck would admit, the figures were eerie. Maybe the length of his palm, stuck at random in little crevices.
There was a crunch of breaking pottery and Slim yelped, staggering into Buck so the lantern swayed, the light flicking madly.
“Watch it!”
Slim grimaced at the shards under his boot. “I broke it. Think it’s cursed?”
“I think you’re an idiot.”
There were more of them now. Larger, brighter paint. Buck eyed one with flaking crimson around what must be a gaping mouth.
“Or magic? Voodoo? My Mam knew a voodoo doctor, one a’them colored witches who—”
“Shut it. Hank said he saw a vein down here, untouched. You want to let Dawson get it first? Pull out all the good ore, leave us with the crumbs?”
“He never said nothing about creepy little dolls!”
“’Cause he’s not a frightened little girl.”
Slim gulped back his blathering. Buck hitched his bag higher on his shoulder and pressed forward. The tunnel twisted left and right, pitched down, and lined with blank eyes, gaping, silent mouths.
The sound changed, echoing differently than before. They came around a corner and the tunnel ended in a flat wall. Not a natural one, but stones fitted together almost like bricks. Everywhere a piece jutted out, one of those little clay figures sat, dozens of empty eyes staring back at them.
Slim drew a rattling breath. “This is bad, Buck. Real bad.”
Buck agreed, cursing Hank. “Paid five dollars for this map. I’m gonna kill’m.”
“Let’s go. Please, Buck. I don’t like them looking at me.”
Buck shrugged off Slim’s grasping hands. “Hold this.”
Slim took the lantern, the shadows trembling as he shivered. Buck snorted in disgust and hefted his pickax.
The ring of metal on stone overpowered Slim’s whimpers. It took longer than Buck expected to hack enough of the mortar away to get a stone loose.
He set his pickax aside and wiggled the makeshift brick free, holding his breath against the dust hanging heavy in the air.
It made a dull thud when he tossed it aside. The opening was too narrow for the light to show him anything, but he could get the claw of his ax in the gap and leverage the next stone free.
Soon, he had made an opening large enough for the lantern.
“Here, gimme the light.”
Slim passed it over, his breathing a high-pitched whine. Buck wedged himself against the wall, more of those stupid dolls knocked loose, and peered inside.
Nothing. Just blank gray stone and dead, musty air.
His hacking had weakened the wall and more fell away underneath him as he twisted to examine the chamber. Maybe two yards across, no higher than the tunnel they crouched in.
Buck cursed long and coarse. “Worth less little—"
The lantern went out. He blinked in the sudden darkness, Slim’s squeal shrill in the confined space, hands pawing at his back.
“Dammit, Slim, knock it off! Move so I — ”
Something gripped his arm, jerking him against the rough edge of the stone wall. The lantern slipped from his sweaty grip and shattered, the smell of lamp oil sharp under the must of earth and damp.
“Slim! Stop! Let me—!”
He broke off in a snarl of pain as something dragged him forward, stones cutting his chest, his sides.
“Buck! Buck!”
He couldn’t choke out an answer, kicking wildly, the grip on his elbow, his shoulder, his neck, drawing him inward. Slim’s screams filled his ears, his mouth full of cold shadows and earth and hunger.
Slim fell back, Buck’s boot catching him square in the chest. The darkness amplified the struggle, Buck’s grunts, the scrap of something over stone, shattering clay.
He scrambled back, clawing at the walls, panic tight around his throat.
Then the only sound was his wheezing, the thunder of blood in his ears. He lay in the dirt, sweat stinging his eyes, salty on his lips.
He eased up, trying to listen. The tunnel was complete blackness, the kind that tricked you with glimmers of false light at the edges of your vision. Slim forced shaking fingers to search his pack, feeling the sharp edges of his tools, his canteen, until he found his tinder box.
He’d lit countless fires, and his hands knew what to do even as they trembled. He fumbled the match when it illuminated the gaping hole in the wall. A pile of rubble covered the floor. He found a candle and touched the dying match to the wick.
The flame wavered, strengthened, and dripped hot wax down his hand.
“B—Buck?”
Slim heaved himself up, fingers digging into the earthen wall.
“Buck? You alright?”
“Buck?”
Slim jumped, hissing as wax sloshed over his arm. He held his breath, waiting.
It was Buck’s voice, quiet and curious. “Buck? You alright?”
“This isn’t funny. Come out.”
“Come out. Come out.”
Slim crept closer. “Did you hit your head or something? Why are you—?”
His tongue thickened, choking him. Something moved inside, a hand gripping the edge of the hole. Not a hand, something almost a hand, but horribly not.
It wasn’t Buck’s voice, not sing-song and gleeful like that. “Come out. Come out, Buck.”
A head lifted. Not Buck’s head. His nose, his mouth, his eyes. Not his eyes, blank, not reflecting the light. It smiled.
Slim screamed.
Constance began the day with death, yet again.
It was a pig this time, one of the spring litter. The barn door open, a carcass in a pool of blood, slack mouth gaping.
Pinching her lips to hold back an unChristian curse, she scattered the feed in the yard and went back to the house.
She stoked the fire in the stove and set water to boil for coffee. She had a stack of griddlecakes steaming on the table before Charlie dragged himself to the kitchen. He settled in one of the two chairs and watched her with shadowed eyes.
“It happened again.”
He grunted. “Thought you secured the barn last night.”
“I did.”
“You sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure!”
More grunts. It was all she got lately. Not that she liked early mornings any better than he did, but she was at least civil.
“Once you’ve eaten, I need you to—”
“Can’t. Dawson’s expecting me.”
Constance set the skillet down deliberately. “Mr. Dawson knows you have your own farm to tend, doesn’t he?”
Charlie scoffed. “I ain’t pulling out now, Connie. He’s trucking carts of ore out of that place.”
“Something’s killing our livestock.”
“Probably just some feral dog.”
“And what happens if it comes around while you’re not here?”
Charlie huffed a laugh. “You’re twice the shot I am, my girl.”
It was nasty business, picking bits of dead piglet out of the hay. She got it all in the midden heap and buried it deep.
Next, the other animals. As she went, she inspected the outbuildings for damage.
She had secured the barn last night. A heavy latch swung to nestle in an iron hook, the door itself almost more than she could move alone.
No clawing on the wood, no scratches anywhere else she could see. None of the other animals missing except that darn chook that was always broody and laid her eggs in the outhouse.
She turned and looked over the farm, glad of the solid planks at her back. It was the same as ever, the house, the pump. Further on the privy, the garden settled to sleep for winter. The wood lot and the forest beyond.
Goosebumps raced over her skin, more than cold. It made her uneasy, those woods. Nonsense, as she’d lived here six years and never felt unsafe. Town was only three miles away, for Heaven’s sake!
She shook herself and went to wash up.
She found Alice Mayfield working the counter in the dry goods store. Alice smiled in response to Constance’s greeting, tired and drawn around the mouth. Henry was going to kill her if he kept getting her with child.
“Morning, lovely. What can I get for you?”
“Just some flour and beans. Where’s Henry today?”
“Still over in Milton. Home day after tomorrow. Charlie doing well?”
Constance snorted. “He won’t be. Left me with the chores again.”
“I thought that was the usual way with siblings? Leaving each other messes to clean up?”
The bell over the door rang. Miriam Williams bustled in, loud voice like a horse’s bray rising over the gentle chiming.
“Morning, ladies!”
Constance sighed. “Good morning, Miss Williams.”
Alice was kinder than she and returned the woman’s effusive welcome with kisses to each cheek.
“Bless your heart, Alice, dear, you look dreadful!”
Alice’s smile faltered. “Well, this one’s been worse than the others.”
“Another boy, I guarantee it!”
Miriam nattered on about remedies and tinctures, and Constance edged for the door.
“Wait, Constance! Your flour.”
She turned back, flushing at being caught skulking. Miriam didn’t seem to notice, still yammering on about her nieces and nephews, St. Louie, and her sister’s husband’s cousin’s neighbor.
“Handsome, too. Good for a woman like you, Connie.”
Constance shot the woman a look. “I have no interest in courting some extraneous relation of yours.”
Miriam’s eyes twinkled inside their wrinkled depths. “That because of how John Jacob’s been seen ‘round your place of an evening?”
Constance’s spine snapped straight. “I beg your pardon?”
Miriam chuckled. “Won’t tell a soul, my dear. A girl needs to have a bit of fun now and again.”
Constance gaped, annoyed by the giggle that escaped Alice’s throat.
Miriam tapped her nose. “Won’t tell a soul, I swear it.”
“There’s nothing to tell!” Constance snapped.
Miriam only laughed and left in a swirl of petticoats. Constance stood in fuming silence until Alice cleared her throat.
“Of course, he goes out your way. Lives right past you, doesn’t he?” Alice said soothingly.
Constance glowered.
“Here.” Alice dumped a scoop of boiled candies in a paper bag. “Sweeten you up.”
Constance glared at the bag, too, but couldn’t fight a tiny smile. “Thank you, Alice.”
“Of course, love. Anything else?”
She stared at her packages, thinking. “Do you have any padlocks? I’d ask at Hawthorne’s, but he’s useless.”
“What do you need it for?”
“Something’s killing our pigs.”
Alice frowned over her shoulder, arms stretched overhead to pull down a crate. “An animal?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been securing the barn, but it keeps getting in.”
Alice set the wooden box on the floor and rummaged through it. “A dog, you think? Or a coyote?”
“Know any coyotes that can open a barn door?”
“You… think it’s someone in town?”
“Can’t think of anyone who would do this sort of thing. Steal one, sure. Those Pattersons are all shifty layabouts. But just kill it and leave it? Doesn’t make sense.”
Alice didn’t answer for a moment. Then “Ah! Got it.” She pulled out a rusty old padlock, the key still in the mechanism. “Don’t know if it still works, but maybe some grease will set it moving again.”
Constance thanked her and left, clutching her purchases to her chest.
Her face heated until she thought she’d melt. John Jacobs himself was standing by her pony, tugging its ear.
“Morning, Miss Leyland.”
“Good morning, Mr. Jacobs.” She set her bundle on the seat and climbed in.
“A bit of shopping?”
She ignored that inanity and released the brake.
“What’s this?”
She turned. He was inspecting the lock.
“For the barn,” she said.
His smile faded. “I heard you’ve had some livestock get killed.”
She peered down her nose at him. “Who told you?” The question came out accusatory, and she winced a little.
“Met Buck coming into town. A pig?”
She nodded, ignoring his use of Charlie’s ‘nickname.’ Something about a wager and randy deer buck. It had been stupid when he told her, and it was stupid now.
“I know the coyotes have been bad this year,” Jacobs said. “Lost some kids a few weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He shrugged. “Dogs made a fuss, but by the time I got there, they’d scared it off. Sorry I didn’t get a shot at it.”
She made some noise of agreement and forgiveness.
“You gonna be alright out there?” he asked, brow furrowed in concern.
She flicked the end of the reins against her palm. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Just…” He seemed to measure his words. “There’s definitely something out there. I’ve found some fresh kills, deer and such. Half-eaten and left to rot.”
Constance’s unease bubbled up. “Charlie thinks it’s a feral dog.”
“Maybe…” He rubbed a hand over his face. “You have a gun, right?”
“Of course.”
“Keep it close,” he said. Then he patted the pony’s side and tipped his hat farewell.
Constance spent the afternoon oiling the lock, so it turned with only a few squeals and a grunt of effort. Charlie came home just as she fitting it to the latch.
“What are you doing?”
She jumped, surprised by the sharpness of his voice. She wiped oily hands on her apron and gestured to the modified latch. “Hopefully, ending our problem.”
The smell of fresh sawdust announced her success. The latch had a new hole bored in it, the lock looped through it and around the iron hook that secured it. It was loose, but wouldn’t lift over the hook without the lock open.
She twisted the key and popped the shackle free.
“Smarty boots,” Charlie said. Constance made a face.
He ate a little, hardly touching his food these days, and stretched back. “Where’s the key in case I need it?”
She nodded at the shelf by the stove. He grunted and said goodnight.
Constance warned him to stay in his room before taking a bath by the glow of the banked fire in the stove. She took her time, soaking until the water turned tepid.
Constance woke again in the early hours and scowled blearily at the darkness. Something had made a noise, quiet and from inside the house.
Charlie getting up to use the outhouse? Doubtful. She’d caught him more than once relieving himself out his window as children. Their mother had despaired of that flower box ever growing anything despite the care she gave it.
Constance brushed hair from her face and crept to her door. The two tiny bedrooms were a luxury they had both insisted on. She had no desire to listen to her brother snoring every night.
She eased the door open, not wanting to catch her brother availing himself of any other container at who-knew-what-hour in the night.
Nothing. No light, not even predawn glow from the window.
She padded out into the main room, barely twelve-foot square. She didn’t need a light to reach the stove, fingertips brushing the table and chairs and stepped in something cold.
She hissed a breath, jumping back. Her hip knocked a chair, scraping against the floorboards. She held her breath, waiting for Charlie to grumble a complaint.
Nothing. She edged forward and her toes found the washtub, still sitting next to the stove. She groaned, annoyed at herself for being lazy.
She found a candle and lit it. Water had sloshed over the side of the tub and pooled on the floor. She scowled and turned to look for some toweling.
Footprints led away from the puddle, fading out just before they reached the back door. She stared dumbly at them. They had to be Charlie’s. No one else could get in. She’d drawn the bolt fast before bed, just like she always did.
Still, she went to his door and found it open. His bed was empty, rumpled as if he’d just been sleeping.
“Using the privy,” she said aloud and made herself jump.
She went to the back door, bolt undone, and stepped into her boots, Charlie’s still sitting where they always did.
The light of her candle was pitiful against the night, but she made for the barn, anyway.
The door stood open.
Logically, she knew Charlie was in there. Yet she still hesitated, some fear freezing her limbs.
He’s checking on the animals, her oh-so-logical mind whispered. Heard something and is making sure things are alright before coming back to bed. Barked his shin on the washtub, that’s the sound you heard.
She curled her toes in her boots, shivers rattling her teeth.
A screech. She jolted, sending her candle to the ground and snuffing it. A mad chorus of clucking, wings beating, the horse stamping and snorting. A dull thud reverberated as it kicked the wall.
Constance ran for the house. She tripped over the lintel and slammed the door shut behind her, scraping the bolt home.
She pressed against it, heart in her throat.
The door shuddered beneath her, hit so hard she jerked back from the force of it. Someone trying to get in. Something was trying to get in.
All at once, the furious pounding ceased.
Constance drew in painful gulps of air.
They’d hurt Charlie. He’d gone to see what the noise was, and they’d hurt him just like the chickens and the pigs and he was dead in the barn and now they were trying to get in the house. It wanted in the house and all she had was a shotgun and handful of shells and then they would be on her and they’d—
“What the devil, Connie!”
She sagged, tears of relief standing in her eyes. “Charlie?”
“Of course, it’s me. Open the door.”
She did, breaking a nail in her haste. Charlie stood outside, glowering at her.
“Can’t a man take a piss without getting locked out of his own house?”
She sagged against the door frame.
“It’s three in the damn morning. What the blazes is wrong with you?”
“I thought — I heard — “
He gripped her arms. “What did you hear?”
“There was a noise… and I thought…” She couldn’t explain, her words tangling around each other.
It was too dark to see, but she was sure he rolled his eyes. He let her go to wipe his sleeve over his mouth, running a hand through his hair. “You had a nightmare. Go back to bed.”
“But —”
“Go on.” He gave her a push.
She obeyed, heart still racing, sweat standing itchy and cold on her brow. She kicked off her boots and went to her room, forcing herself to slip under the quilts and lie still.
The floor creaked as Charlie stepped inside. The door shut, the bolt slid home. He made almost no noise as he crossed to his room.
Barefoot, she remembered. His boots still set by the door. Why would he go out barefoot? It was cold, the sparse grass littered with sharp stones.
His door shut, the creak of his bedframe. She took shallow breaths, making no noise, waiting for his snores to break the silence.
She woke heavy-eyed to find noon had come and gone. Guilty, she hurried through her chores. She dumped the bathwater in the garden, embarrassed by her panic and half sure it had been a nightmare.
She collected the key and went to the barn. It was unlatched, but the lock hung by its shackle, presumably where Charlie had left it after fetching his horse.
She shoved the door as wide as it would go, wishing the sun was stronger, not slanted to the horizon and weak with autumn.
Her own fault. If she wanted daylight to bolster her courage, she shouldn’t have lazed in bed. She stiffened her spine and marched in.
She had a full egg basket and a growling stomach when she saw it.
Blood.
On the inside of the barn door. Almost invisible in shadow, rusty against the age-darkened planks.
It was a handprint. Smeared at the edge. A man’s handprint, larger than hers, broad fingers splayed.
A man was doing this. A man was killing and eating her animals. Was slaughtering game in the woods.
A shadow loomed in front of her.
She screamed.
“What the—?”
Her basket slammed into his head, eggs splattering.
She had to run, she was trapped, no other way out, he would kill her next—
“Constance?”
She staggered back, hand to her heart, to see John Jacobs rubbing his ear.
“It seems I’ve startled you, Miss Leyland,” he said, wiping egg from his face and flicking it from his fingers. She stared as he tried to rub his palm clean on his coat, grimacing when that only made it worse.
His hand, the palm square, the fingers long. Had it dripped the same way, coated with fresh gore, hot flesh between his teeth?
“Miss Leyland? Is something…” He took a step. She scrambled back, clutching her basket to her chest. His hands came up, palms out.
“Easy, now, Connie. What’s happened?”
She shook her head, braced for when he lunged. There was no one to hear, not for miles. Charlie would come home and find her half-eaten, her blood pooled in the straw.
He stepped closer, her legs too terrified to run.
His grip was gentle on her arms. Just touching her elbows, then brushing up and down in a soothing motion.
“Easy now,” he murmured.
He didn’t seem bent on devouring her. Some of her fear leeched away. Her knees wobbled.
“What’s frightened you, love?”
“I’m not frightened,” she snapped. Well, more of a whisper.
“My girl, you just clobbered me with a basket. I know you don’t like me much, but...”
She let out a shuddering breath. “Look at the door.”
He frowned but did as she asked. “Why?”
The light was fading, hiding the mark. She ground her teeth and pushed him closer. “Look! Can’t you see it?”
He squinted. “Is it broken? I thought you just bought—”
Constance stormed to the workbench and rummaged until she found a nub of a candle stuck to a metal plate.
“Match!” she clipped. Jacobs obliged, fishing in a pocket. A burst of sulfur and the candle warmed in her hands.
She stuck it up close to the door. “There!”
He said nothing. She glowered at him.
Then, “Is that… blood?”
“Put your hand here.”
His eyes narrowed, the flickering light reflected in each. “I beg your pardon?”
“Put your hand there, John. Now.”
He watched her in silence for a long moment, then obeyed. He held her gaze and set his hand next to the print.
She sagged forward. Not his hand, his larger, longer fingers.
“Thank the Lord,” she breathed.
“What’s going on?”
It came pouring out. The mangled animals, something coming in the night, her terror in the early hours. He listened in scowling silence until she finished, tears on her cheeks.
He gave a curt nod. “I’ll get the sheriff.”
“Wait, what?”
“Go inside. I need to go back to my place to get my team. Where’s your brother?”
“Dawson’s.”
He gave her a bewildered look. “Can’t be. It’s been shut down for weeks. Some workers died.”
Constance shook her head. “He’s been up there every day. Since midsummer.”
Jacobs searched her face, lip caught between his teeth. “Get inside. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
Before she could protest, he pressed a sticky kiss to her forehead and took off at a run.
Growing darkness sped her feet. She slammed the door home and bolted it, dragging a crate in front of it.
Weapon. She needed a weapon.
She ran, fetching anything she could think of and piling them on the table. She lit every candle they had, the lamp and the lantern. It only made the darkness outside worse, rather than bringing her comfort.
Where was Charlie? How soon could John be back with help? Two miles to his house, five miles into town. Telegraph to Milton, hours until the sheriff arrived.
The sound of hooves buoyed her hope, then sent in crashing down. It was too soon, John couldn’t have fetched help that fast.
Steps, crunching in the dry grass, the creak of the step. The door tested, the latch rattled.
“Seriously, woman! I’m sorry I left my socks out again, but locking me out of my own house?”
A hysterical laugh burst from her lips. She kicked the crate free and yanked the door open. Charlie scowled and pushed by her.
“I hope that’s not becoming a habit. When you became such a shrew…” He stopped, seeing her panic, the pile of weapons on the table, the candles glowing on every surface.
“What’s going on?”
She drew a shaking hand over her face, relief and fatigue pounding in her temple. She opened her mouth to explain, as insane as it sounded, but her words caught in her throat.
The room glowed around them, tiny lights winking from every shiny surface. The window, the tin cups, his belt buckle.
But not his eyes.
She shook her head to clear it. “John came by. He said…”
“Asked you to marry him? “Bout time.”
“No. No, he…” She took a deep breath, the air rich with beeswax. “He said Dawson’s shut down.”
Charlie’s head tilted, dark eyes watching her.
She stammered. “W—weeks ago, he said. People d—died.”
Charlie said nothing. Then he smiled.
The edge of the stove pressed into her hips.
“Smarty boots. Wondered when you’d figure it out.”
She leaned back as he prowled closer, hands braced on the still warm stove top.
“Was saving you, you know.”
Her breaths came in terrified gasps, high and sharp in her chest.
“Didn’t want to feed so close to home. But game is scare, so many people in town, now. But I needed more. Been in there a long time.”
How could she have mistaken this thing for her brother? The way it moved, the gaping mouth, too long limbs, lurching closer.
“Hungry,” it hissed. “So hungry.”
Her hand closed around the handle of her skillet. She swung, the impact a bolt of pain up her arm, a sickening crunch of bone.
It staggered, howling, a rising shriek that stabbed her ears until she had to drop the skillet to press her hands over them.
It swung to face her again, snarling, no words now, just fury and death.
She cut her own palm, grabbed for a knife. It slammed her forward, sending her and the table crashing to the ground. Her makeshift weapons rang on the floorboards with the tinkle of breaking glass.
Lamp oil slicked her front as she scrambled to find her feet. It dragged her back, grip tight on her leg. She twisted and kicked, boot connecting with its face.
Still, it drew her closer, fingers grasping, tearing.
She slashed with the knife, blade scraping through flesh. It reared back, howling.
She rolled to her feet. It scrabbled at the wound, tearing its own flesh in its fury.
The air was hot, searing against the icy chill of her skin. She coughed, smoke rising in the air. The candles, the oil, crackles of orange light.
It swung its head back and forth, teeth gnashing, a gory mess where its eyes had been.
She ran for the door. It heard, snarling, climbing over the furniture, towering against the flames.
A bony hand bit into her shoulder. It swung her around, mouth gaping, teeth eager. She drew back her arm and slammed the knife into its chest with all her strength.
It staggered, finger plucking at the handle, and falling into the growing flames.
It shrieked, thrashing, slick with oil. Constance leaped again, but not for the door. Her bloody hands closed on the jar of spare oil, kept carefully away from the stove.
She hurled it. It shattered, dousing the creature. The flames faltered only a moment, then roared, a flash of heat and light that seared her face.
She staggered blindly for the door, choking on smoke, the stink of burning flesh thick in her mouth.
The air outside was cold, the wind cutting. She fell, scraping her arms and legs as she crawled away from the burning house, panting, crying, hardly feeling the pain of her injuries.
She collapsed in exhaustion, only enough strength to turn over, to watch as the house was devoured, wood snapping, glass cracking, exploding outward from the pressure and heat.
John found her there, half frozen in the yard, hugging herself and rocking as dawn lit the east.
He thundered up, jumping from his horse as it skidded to a halt. He gripped her shoulders, shook her, shouted her name.
She stared dully at the smoking remains of her house, throat rough from tears and smoke and terror.
“Connie? Say something!”
She sniffed and wiped her nose.
“I figured out what was killing the pigs.”
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